


Dark Ways

by indiefic



Series: Dark Ways [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abortion, Alcohol Abuse, Alternate Universe, Dimension hopping Steves, F/M, Modern Day Setting, Pregnancy, Steggy baby, Steve and Peggy were both on the Valkyrie, The serum made Steve evil, hatesex kind of, pregnancy loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: Erskine was wrong.  The serum twisted Steve as much as it twisted Schmidt.Modern day setting.  There will be 3 sections, which will jump around a little in time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “You must suffer me to go my own dark way.”  
> ― Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
> 
>  
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr. Posted here by request.

**I.**

Peggy takes a sip of the gin and tonic and checks her phone.  Hill again.  She finally switches it off.  It’s another ten minutes before he slides onto the barstool next to her.  She doesn’t acknowledge him.  The bartender comes over and gives him a blinding smile.  He returns it along with that wholesome American charm he honed so well.  He orders a beer.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up,” she says idly, taking another sip of her drink.  “I thought you might have plans.”

He shrugs.  “I’ve never felt any particular loyalty to Schmidt’s dynasty.  You know that.”

She looks over at him, still so handsome, with a guileless smile that fooled everyone.  She does, indeed, know he was never particularly complicit with Schmidt.  Only so much as Schmidt’s agenda intersected with his own.  He doesn’t give a fuck about Hydra ideology.  She’s not sure what’s in it for him.  The joy of chaos?  A base desire to hurt and maim?

“What about you?” he asks.  “Why are you here?  You’ll leave your teammates to fight their battle alone?”

“Perhaps.”

“What does that mean?”

She gives him a hard look.  “It means that I will sleep with you on one condition, that you stay the entire night.”

She wonders if he will laugh or demean her, but he doesn’t.  He gives her a long, appraising look, full of hunger.  She may not understand what motivates him, but she does know that he wants her.  He’s always wanted her.  She wouldn’t put it past him to use force, but it’s clear that’s not his preference.  He wants her surrender.  He wants her to want him, and hate herself for it.  

On those two counts, he has already won.

She turns away, downing what’s left of her drink in one long swallow.  The team is waiting on her.  They have solid intel that the attack will happen tonight.  It’s a rare chance to really strike a blow at Hydra, to try and claw back some of what they lost in that debacle at the Triskellion three months ago.  They need her.  She’s an integral part of the team.

But Peggy understands that she can be of more use to the cause simply by keeping Steve out of the fight.

She pushes herself off the barstool and shrugs into her jacket.  Without a word, Steve rises too.  He puts cash next to his half full drink.  When she heads outside, he follows.  The bar isn’t far from her place, that’s why she chose it.  A ten minute walk, in silence, and then four flights of stairs.  

She tosses her keys down on the counter, but doesn’t bother with the light.  The apartment sucks, she knows, but she hasn’t had the time or desire to look for something better.  If Steve is disappointed, he doesn’t say anything.  She has no idea where he stays, or if he even has a home base.  For all she knows, he roams.  It’s fairly obvious he wouldn’t have a hard time finding companionship for the night.

It’s almost as if he senses the dark turn her thoughts have taken and he wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her to him.  She sucks in a breath and looks at him in the dim light filtering through the blinds on the lone window.  Carefully, she reaches up and touches the side of his face.  His eyes flutter shut and he turns into her touch.

The last time she touched him like this, it was before the serum.  It was when he was still _her_ Steve, and not this … whatever he is now.

He leans in, nuzzling against her jaw and her breath catches in what might be the beginning of a sob.  He ducks his head, kissing her.  It isn’t an assault.  It isn’t what she expects from the man who almost single handedly destroyed SHIELD.  His lips are gentle, tentative, a question more than a demand.

She does sob this time, but she’s the one who deepens the kiss, who pushes him back against the locked door.  She should be out there, with the team, fighting Hydra.  And instead she’s here, touching the demon who wears the mask of the man she once loved.  She knows that tactically, it’s the right decision.  With Steve out of the fray, the team can make real headway at dismantling Hydra.  But she hates herself for it.  Because she knows she’d be here even if it wasn’t a benefit to the team.

He betrayed them.  He betrayed them all so profoundly.  They’d all believed, all bought his act, which was so much more of a performance than the Star Spangled Man had ever given.  

But they hadn’t _all_ bought it, had they?

Peggy suspected.  From the first day.  From the moment he tracked Heinz Kruger through the streets of Brooklyn, she suspected that the man who emerged from Howard’s pod was different - damaged - dangerous.  He wasn’t her Steve.  Not anymore.

But there had never been quite enough evidence to raise the alarm.  And once they gave him free rein his results were simply too good to argue with.  There were always problems.  Always things that couldn’t be explained.  Hydra always had intel there they shouldn’t have possessed.  But it could never definitively be traced back to Steve.

And she’d still wanted him, even then.  She still loved the way his eyes followed her, the way she commanded his attention in a manner no other woman could.

When she finally found the courage to voice her suspicions to Phillips, she did it slowly, carefully.  So carefully she never actually said Steve’s name.  But Phillips agreed, and she was so relieved, so grateful.  Until she realized that Phillips suspected Barnes.  Peggy wanted to believe Phillips was right.  It made sense.  Barnes had been at Zola’s mercy for months.  

But she knew the truth, in her heart.

It wasn’t until the very last moment, when she jumped aboard the Valkyrie with Steve, that she’d known for certain how completely he betrayed them all.  Betrayed humanity.  He struck a devil’s bargain with Schmidt.  Honestly, Peggy isn’t certain which of them was the bigger demon.  Schmidt was clearly mad.  But Steve was more nefarious, more insidious.  The demon with the face of an angel, the wolf who could walk freely amongst the sheep.

She’d managed to stop them, to crash the Valkyrie after Schmidt disappeared with that damn cube.

When she woke seventy years later, it was already too late.  Her first words upon waking were “Rogers is - “

“Evil,” Fury had finished for her.  “We know.  Figured it out the hard way.”

Steve, having received the perfected serum, the one that changed his physical form, giving him superhuman strength, recovered faster than she did.  He woke weeks before her.  The fact that Erskine used her as a test subject was never publicized.  And truthfully, the benefits she received were minimal.  Some enhanced healing abilities, and, apparently, an aptitude for long periods in stasis.

By the time she woke, Steve had already laid waste to a good portion of SHIELD’s upper management, thrown the entire organization into disarray and disappeared into the wind.  Peggy did the only thing she could, she picked herself up and moved on, started again.  The world had changed, the fight had changed, but she still had a job to do.

She’d only seen him a handful of times.  He was the one who pulled her from beneath the pile of rubble after they finally managed to stop Loki.  He was the one who stopped Barnes from throttling her, and then dragged her out of the Potomac.  

Then, two weeks ago, there was an incident at the Tower.  A Hydra strike team, led by Steve.  It was chaos.  She tracked him down, specifically with the intention of ending him once and for all.  His physical strength defied logic.  She’d never stood a chance.  He pinned her to the floor and she thought that was it, he was going to put them both out of her misery.

But he’d just watched her, and then released her hands.  And to her eternal shame, rather than attacking him, she’d touched him, her fingertips against his cheekbone.  She thought he might laugh.  He didn’t.  She felt the shiver go through his frame and he pushed into the contact.

Then Natasha attacked him and the moment was gone.  Peggy and the team managed to fight them back, to stop them from making off with the tech they were after.

But she understood she had an advantage, if she chose to use it.   The only cost is the toll on her heart and soul.

They can’t fight Steve.  Not head on.  The idea of catching him, locking him up, is ridiculous, regardless of what Stark and Fury think.  Steve is too strong, too cunning, too erratic.  No one seems to know what he really wants, which makes him impossible to predict.

Except that Peggy knows.  She knows at least one thing he wants.   _Her_.

They need to kill Steve.  To end him completely.  

She knows she can’t do that.

But she can distract him, and give the team enough time to even the score with Hydra.

Steve scoops her into his arms and carries her to the bed.  He sets her down next to it and she shrugs out of her jacket before kicking away her shoes.  He does the same.  Then for a long moment, they simply stand there, looking at one another.

More than seventy years and they’re finally here.

He is the one to lean in, to hook his finger through her belt loop and pull her close.  She presses herself against him, opening her mouth as he kisses her.  Again, he is shockingly gentle, careful.  She knows he is taking note of her reactions, her response to him.  And to her eternal shame, she does respond to him.

She tugs at him, pulling him with her.  She scoots to the middle of the bed, watching as he follows.  Her stomach muscles tighten, as he stalks across the bed toward her on hands and knees.

His kisses this time are more demanding, more possessive and she loves it.  She threads her fingers through his hair, holding him close as she twines one of her legs with his.  He groans, arching against her, breathing faster.  She pulls at his shirt and he pushes himself up on his knees long enough to tug it off and toss it away.  He then grabs the hem of her shirt and she lets him do the same to her.

Immediately, he ducks his head, kissing and nipping at the curve of her breast not covered by her bra.  She arches her back, pressing into the contact and he growls in approval.  She shivers, pushing her hips against his, reaching for the waistband of his jeans.

He stills for a moment, looks up at her and then captures her lips in a searing kiss.  Then he’s pushing himself up on his knees and back.  He looks down at her and deliberately reaches for the button of her jeans.  She shifts restlessly on the bed as he pulls the button free and then tugs the material down.  She lifts her hips and then pulls her knees back, allowing him to skim the material down her legs and away.  She reaches for his jeans again but he shakes his head, leaning in and kissing her.  She returns the kiss, but she can feel him moving, shoving his jeans down his legs.

She moves her hand, skimming it over his shoulder, down his back and then to his hip.  She skims her knuckles lightly along his belly, feeling the muscles jump at her touch.  And then she’s cupping him through the material of his shorts.  He bites down on her bottom lip and arches into her hand, growling.

She sits up, pushing him back and then rising herself, so they’re both kneeling on the bed, chest to chest.  His hands coast down her back and then cup her ass, pulling her against him.  She breathes out, hard, and her fingertips bite into his shoulders.  “Yes,” she says, nipping at his jaw.

She has been so lonely for so long and the feel of his naked skin against hers is almost too much.  She has longed for this, spent years trying to find this feeling in another’s arms.  But all to no avail.  It’s him.  Steve.  His touch she craves above all others.  She groans, pressing her face against his neck, shivering at the feel of him in her arms.

He holds her close, presses nipping kisses along the tops of her shoulders.  He captures her lips again and when he feels the tears on her cheeks, something primal and possessive in him springs to life.  He pulls back far enough to skim push his shorts down his legs and then does the same with her panties.  She lets him, clinging to him as he strips them both.  His fingers graze over the bare skin between her legs and he stills for a moment.  She doesn’t have time to wonder at what that he might be thinking before before he lays her back on the bed, crouching over her.

He doesn’t kiss her like she expects.  Instead, he stays where he is, above her, not quite touching, though she can feel the heat of his body radiating.  He looks at her in the dim light and then reaches over with one hand and flicks on the bedside lamp.

She blinks against the sudden influx of light, but his gaze never wavers, watching her like a hawk.  Blinking up at him, she tentatively reaches up and touches his chest.  His eyes move to follow her hand and then back on her face.  He cups the side of her face with one hand, his thumb playing over the drying tears on her cheeks.  She has no idea what he thinks he sees there.

“You have rubbers?” he asks.

She manages to not roll her eyes.  Without taking her eyes from his, she reaches over and opens the drawer on her nightstand.  He glances over and then back to her face.  She can see the muscles in his jaw stand out and she knows that is not the response she wanted.  But she’s starting to understand.

“Why did you turn on the light?” she asks.

He blinks once, slowly. “I wanted to see you.”

It’s bullshit.  His eyesight is perfect, even in near darkness.  The light is for her benefit.  

She sits up, pushing on one of his shoulders, urging him to roll over onto his back.  He does as she wishes, settling against the pillows, but his eyes are still narrowed and his jaw is still tight.

She straddles him, her knees on either side of his hips as she looms over him.  Making sure he’s looking her in the eye, she reaches behind herself and releases the clasp on her bra.  She pulls the material away slowly, taking note of how he drops his gaze to her breasts.  The harshness in his expression fades, replaced by hunger.

His hands trace up her thighs and torso and then cup her breasts.  They both suck in a quick breath and she moans, pushing against his hands.  Carefully, she lowers herself against him, rubbing against him.  She’s so wet, especially now.  Her eyes flutter shut as she arches against him, his stiff cock trapped between his own body and her wetness.  She hears the harshness of his breath and she opens her eyes, looking down at him.

She laughs mirthlessly and his eyes narrow dangerously, his entire body going still.  She leans in, still rocking her hips against his.  “I don’t need the lamp.  I don’t need a reminder of what I’m doing and who I’m doing it with.”  She takes a deep breath.  “I don’t think about other men when I’m with you, Steve,” she says bluntly.  “I think about you when I’m with them.”

She can see the pleasure warring with irritation on his face.  Irritation presumably because he doesn’t want her with other men.  The same irritation at the fact that she has a drawer full of rubbers next to her bed.  She has no idea what that means.  The serum warped him so completely.   She has no idea if he’s capable of loving anything, let alone her.  But it doesn’t shock her that he’s possessive.

One of his hands leaves her breast, trailing down her torso to touch gently between her legs.  She shudders and moves against his questing fingers.  His brows pinch together, looking at her like she’s a puzzle to solve.

“Natasha said I should try going bare at least once,” she offers, knowing he’s not going to ask.  He looks up and meets her gaze.  She arches an eyebrow.  “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says so quickly and with such vehemence that she has to bite back a smile.  His brow furrows again.  “I just wasn’t expecting it.”  He rubs her again, coating his fingers with her wetness, stroking gently against her sex.

She moans, grinding against his hand.  She can feel him chuckle.  “So why does Natasha recommend this?” he asks.

“More sensitive,” she manages, then bites down on her bottom lip, rolling her hips against his questing fingers.

“And was she right?” he teases.

She nods helplessly.

He shifts, rolling her over onto her back, immediately scooting down the bed.  He pushes her thighs apart and then his mouth is there, licking and kissing.  Her back arches and she grabs the back of his head, holding him against her.

He shakes off her hand and then catches it in his own, pinning it to the bed as his other arm wraps around her thigh, holding her hips in place.  His shoulders are so broad, forcing her thighs apart and there’s nothing she can do but give over to this delicious torment.  

He toys with her, bringing her right to the edge before backing her off again.  She knows she’s making noise, begging.  The second time he pulls away, she kicks at him, cursing, trying to scratch at him.  He holds her down more firmly, but seems to take the hint.  This time when she begins to crest the wave of pleasure, he sees her firmly over it.

She still fighting for breath as he moves over her.  He captures her lips at the same time he pushes into her and she gasps.  He pushes forward until he’s as deep inside her as he can go and they’re both breathing hard.  Fuck.  Seventy years of longing and she finally has him right where she wants him.

He seems to agree.  He presses hard kisses to her lips and then along her jaw.  He says her name, his breath hot against her skin.  She holds him, fighting back the tears that burn her eyes.  She wishes so desperately that there was some way to save him, some way to bring back the man she first fell in love with.  But he’s gone.  And she knows it.

He kisses her again, harder, as if seeming to read her thoughts.  She already knows he hates the thought of her imagining another man in his place.  That apparently holds true even if the other man is himself.

He rocks against her and she gasps, her fingers biting into his back.  He sets a steady pace and she nips at his earlobe, whispering to him.  How good he feels inside her, how hard.  She tells him how she imagines him when she brings herself off.  He’s close, she knows.  She tells him how many nights she’s spent aching for him, wanting only him.  She tells him how she said his name when she came on Rumlow’s cock.

His body goes taut above her and he shudders, slamming his hips against hers a final time.  She holds him close, fingers sifting through his hair.  He releases a quick breath and turns his head, capturing her lips in a hard, possessive kiss.  He pulls back and looks into her eyes.  She wonders how long it will be before they find Rumlow’s body.  Not long, she imagines.

It’s late.  Peggy visits the loo.  She opens the medicine cabinet and takes one of the emergency contraceptive pills.  Despite their discussion of rubbers, they didn’t actually use one.  It’s a rookie mistake.  She cups her hand under the water and swallows the pill.  She tries not to look at herself in the mirror.

He’s still in bed when she leaves the bathroom.  She wondered if he might sneak away, try and wreak as much havoc as possible with Fury.  But he’s apparently decided to make good on his word to stay the night.  Naked, she crosses the room, kicking their clothes into a pile.  She notices the way he watches her.  She finally turns off the lamp and urges him to scoot over.  He does, but as soon as she’s under the covers, he pulls her close, his hands roaming over her body possessively.

He touches between her legs again, more curious than intent.  “Did it hurt?” he asks.

She’s exhausted, already half asleep.  “It wasn’t pleasant.”

He makes a noise.

“Do you prefer it like this?” she asks out of curiosity.

He shrugs and then punches the pillow into shape before laying down and once again pulling her back against his body.  “As long as you let me fuck you, I don’t care what you do with your personal grooming, Peg.”

She waits a moment.  “But it was pretty fucking hot.”

“It was incredibly fucking hot,” he agrees, cupping a breast as he pushes his nose against the nape of her neck.

“Don’t get used to it,”she says.  

END SECTION


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

 

She knows that Tony is standing there in the doorway of her hospital room, but she doesn’t turn her head, or otherwise acknowledge him.  Sometimes he reminds her so much of Howard.  He finally steps closer, stands near the foot of her bed, fidgeting.

“I’m sorry, Carter,” he says.  “If there’s anything I can do - “

“There is, actually,” she says, again without looking at him.

“Oh yeah?” he asks quietly.

She finally turns and meets Tony’s gaze.  “Look the other way,” she says quietly.

His brow furrows, and then it hits him and he purses his lips together, frowning at her.  “Carter, you know - “

“You asked,” she snaps.  She glares at him. “You asked if there is anything you can do to help me with the traumatic loss of my child and I am telling you.  Look the other way.”

He sighs and she knows he hates it, but he finally nods.  “Fine,” he says.  “But only tonight.  After that, the truce is done.  And if Ross finds out, I’m taking a page out of Fury’s book and disavowing all knowledge.”

She nods.

 

* * *

 

It’s late, which is what she expected.  The room lights are off and the hallways are dim when he slips inside the room.  He sits in the chair at her bedside and she pulls back the blankets.  He takes the hint, climbing into the narrow hospital bed with her, pulling her close.

She holds onto him, buries her face against his chest and does the thing she hasn’t allowed herself to do since this started.  She cries, gutwrenching sobs that shake her entire body.  His arm tightens around her and she’s aware of his lips pressed against her forehead.

She has no idea what he thinks about any of this.  She has no idea how he found out, though she expected as much.  She thought about texting him, in the ambulance, but decided that adding more drama to the mix wouldn’t be a benefit to anyone, least of all her.  She’d still thought, at that point, that maybe something could be done.

They’d been at Pepper’s, for a girls’ night out.  Peggy hadn’t felt well, but she figured it was par for the course.  She was nearly six months along and it seemed like everything was becoming more of a challenge.  But she hadn’t expected it.  It feels so stupid, so naive, in retrospect.  Once she was out of the first trimester, it really hadn’t occurred to her that anything would go wrong with the pregnancy.  At least nothing more than was already wrong - that her child’s father was public enemy number one with every American intelligence agency and quite a few other countries as well.  He was a wanted fugitive, and known terrorist  That should have been enough.  But it wasn’t.

She started spotting, which was concerning, but didn’t raise the alarm.  She felt worse and worse as the evening progressed.  The spotting turned into full blown hemorrhaging.  Peggy’s fairly sure it was Nat who called the ambulance.  

The emergency room physician was kind, but clear.  She lost the baby.  She received medical attention quickly enough that the doctor didn’t expect any lasting damage.  Physically, she assumes the doctor meant.  The doctor was quick to tell her that she could try again, soon.  As if that was even a possibility.  

They didn’t know yet, for certain, what had caused the miscarriage.  They suspected a clotting disorder, which would mean that any future pregnancy would require regular anti-coagulation medications.  

A future pregnancy.  What a joke.

It had been an accident.  One giant accident, just like the rest of her life.  

The team had been tracking Strucker for months, in the worst conditions.  They’d been close, in Austria, that January.  So close.  And then that giant fucking blizzard hit and anybody who wasn’t Thor ended up with frostbite or bronchitis, or in Peggy’s case, pneumonia.

Everybody was miserable, laid up for weeks.  Peggy tried to shake it off, but when she was coughing so hard she couldn’t sleep and started running a fever, she finally went to the doctor.  The medical student who did the intake asked her the usual stuff, including the date of the start of her last menstrual cycle.  

“Right before Thanksgiving,” she said, without thinking.

The kid had looked at the calendar and then back to her chart, flipping through pages.  “You use condoms for birth control, right?”

She’d looked up at him, through the fog of sickness and it hit her like a lead weight.  “Christmas, I mean,” she said quickly.  “Right before Christmas.”

He nodded.  “Ah, okay.”

At the pharmacy, Peggy picked up the prescription antibiotics.  And two different kinds of pregnancy tests.

They were all positive.

Peggy googled to make sure the antibiotic was safe during pregnancy and then went to bed for a week.  She thought maybe if she ignored it, it would go away.  

Unlike the pneumonia, the pregnancy didn’t go away.  

She was having a baby, with her murderous lover.  

_ Fuck _ .

She and Steve had been sleeping together off and on for more than a year.  And they weren’t careful.  It wasn’t exactly a shock that it happened, but it definitely hadn’t been something she was hoping for.

She went back and forth about having it.  What if the serum had changed Steve at the genetic level?  What if the child she carried was destined to share the same homicidal urges as Steve?  There was no way to know.  She knew it was absurd to even consider carrying the child to term.  

She made an appointment for a termination.  

And then didn’t go.

As fucked up as it was, she loved Steve.  She didn’t have any illusions about him being a decent human being.  But she still loved him.  And she wanted this child.

So she decided she was going to do it.  She was going to have the baby, raise it.  She really hadn’t included Steve in any of her planning, hadn’t bothered even telling him she was pregnant.  She didn’t have any dreams that he would be an actual father to the child.  She figured that he’d find out eventually and she’d decide what to do about it at that point.

He figured it out considerably quicker than she anticipated.

Peggy half heartedly thought she’d give him ample opportunity to run into her somewhere.  Except that she was so exhausted that any time she wasn’t actively working a case, she was face down on the couch in her apartment.  In fact, that’s exactly where she was when he showed up.

She woke to find him flipping through her cable channels.  She looked over at him, frowning.  “What do you want?”

He didn’t even bother to take his eyes off the TV.  “When were you planning to tell me I knocked you up?”

She didn’t reply.  

He finally looked over at her.  “You have a bottle of folic acid sitting next to the sink.”

“I’m very invested in my health.”

“You’d have scurvy if you didn’t put lime wedges in your gin and tonic,” he said drolly.  “Now you’re taking vitamins.”  He shook his head.  “How far along are you?”

She groaned, rolling away from him, giving him her back.  “Maybe it’s not yours.”

“You’d better hope it’s mine, or the kid is going to be short one parent before it’s even born.”

Truthfully, she wished it was even a possibility that the kid could belong to someone other than Steve.  Considering what an abysmal choice she would be for immaculate conception, there was only one option.  Steve was the father.  She hadn’t slept with anyone else since before they got involved.

“Twelve weeks,” she said.

He didn’t reply, but she heard him push himself out of the chair.  She knew he was kneeling on the floor, behind her.  He braced one arm against the back of the couch and leaned over her, pressing a hard kiss to her jaw.

She sighed, reaching up and touching his face as she rolled onto her back, looking up at him.  He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.

 

* * *

 

She sleeps, fitfully, pressed against him in the narrow hospital bed.  Physically she feels awful.  She is exhausted, achy.  Her back is killing her and the cramps are excruciating.  She finally gives up trying to sleep and lies there, staring out the darkened window.  Steve is pressed all along her back, his arm thrown around her waist.  She knows he’s not asleep either.

“Do they know why?” he asks quietly.

She is shocked he asked, shocked he might possibly care, or feel like he has a stake in things.  She doesn’t say anything.  She needs time to try and process what the doctor said before she attempts to explain it to anyone else.

He is quiet for a long time and then he says, “Is it ... Do they think the serum caused it?  Or some genetic abnormality?”

Again, she can’t answer.  She understands that he thinks it’s his fault, but at that moment she doesn’t have the reserves to reassure him.  She sets her arm over his, pulls it tighter against her body.  He takes the hint, holding her tighter, pressing a kiss to the back of her head.

When she wakes in the morning, he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

She heals, physically at least.  She’s stopped bleeding.  But she’s not right.  She tries to talk to the doctor, but all she hears is how it’s normal, how hormone levels are fluctuating.  It doesn’t really begin to explain why she wants to punch her fist through everyone face, or why she bursts into tears with no provocation.

She’s never been a stranger to alcohol, but in the weeks after the miscarriage, the relationship takes a dark turn.  She drinks.  A lot.  Because it’s the only thing she’s found that will dull the pain.  It dulls her too, but she’s willing to deal with that.

She’s at the liquor store just after midnight on a Tuesday.  She pays and heads for the door, only to find Steve blocking her way.  He takes the bag from her and follows her back to the apartment.

She expects him to be a dick, to provoke her, because that’s typically what he does.  But he’s silent, walking at her side.  There are no taunts about Strucker or Stark, there are no double entendres, or insinuations that he can find other companionship if she isn’t in the mood to fuck him.  Which is good because she is not fucking him.

Inside her apartment, he sets the gin on the counter.  It’s clear from his body language that she’s not getting the gin, not without going through him.  And that’s just fine with her.  She's in the mood for a good fight. 

“Give me the bottle,” she says, shrugging out of her hoodie and throwing it on the couch.

He watches her.

“Then get the fuck out of the way,” she says, trying, and failing, to elbow him out of the way.  She reaches for the bottle and he catches her hand.  She tries to tug free of his grip, but it’s no use.  She’s not a match physically for him.  But it doesn’t stop her from trying.

“You fuck,” she curses, pushing at him.  

He catches her other arm and she growls, lunging at him, trying to bite him.  He twists her around, so her back is to his front.  She tries to ram the back of her head into his face, but he evades her quite handily.  It probably doesn’t help that she’s still mostly drunk.  

“Let me go, Steve,” she snaps, trying to pull free.

He doesn’t give an inch.  She stomps on his foot as hard as she can and he grunts, but doesn’t release her.  So she starts trying to kick at him.  He picks her up and wrestles her, thrashing, to the bed.   He throws her down on her back and pins her to the bed, her wrists in his hands as he sits across her thighs, looking down at her, his expression shockingly flat.  His heart isn’t in this fight.

She yells then, loud and inarticulate.  She pushes and pulls and squirms as hard as she can trying to get free.  She’s cursing at him, crying.  All he does is sit there, holding her down.

She has no idea how long it lasts.  She starts coughing, then gagging.  He releases her and she rolls over onto her side, vomiting into the trashcan next to the bed.  It’s all bile and booze and it burns her throat and mouth.  She’s shaking, coughing, still crying.  She slowly pushes herself into a sitting position.  When she’s more under control, she rises to stand.  Steve offers her a hand and she shoves him away with a curse.

In the bathroom, she peels off all her clothes and sinks to the shower floor, sitting under the spray.  She’s been in there for a while when Steve opens the bathroom door and watches her, in silence, through the water spotted shower door.  Eventually the shitty water heater runs dry and she turns off the shower.  Steve hands her a towel and then retreats.  She wraps the towel around herself.  She brushes her teeth and looks at herself in the mirror.  She looks like shit.

She pulls on her robe and walks into the bedroom.  He’s sitting there, waiting.  

“Can I do something?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says bluntly.  “You can be him.”

She sees his features harden, but his voice is even when he asks,  “ _ Him _ who?”

She glares at him, teeth clenched together against the vicious, bitter pain in her heart and soul.  “ _ My _ Steve,” she snaps.  “The man Erskine trusted to be a good man.  The man I fell in love with.”

Slowly, he stands up and steps closer to her.  He seems resigned and for once, he’s not trying to intimidate her with his size.  He just stands there.  “I hate to break it to you, Peg,” he says.  “But I am  _ your  _ Steve.  The only one you’re getting, so you may as well accept it.”

She shakes her head, turning away.  “Get out.  Go away.  I don’t want you here.”

He’s still standing there, in the middle of her bedroom, hands on his hips.  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.  “I didn’t know this would happen.”

She laughs mirthlessly, knowing it sounds hysterical and unhinged.  “Fuck you, Steve.”

His glower deepens.

She shakes her head.  “It wasn’t you, okay,” she snaps.  “It was  _ me _ .  It’s  _ my _ physiology that is the problem, not yours.  So if you want a kid, just go find someone.  You’re in the clear.”

She doesn’t get the sense that her words make him feel any better.  She’s not sure she cares.

“I don’t want a kid,” he says carefully.  “But you're mine, and I’m yours.”

She is darkly amused by the absurdity of the situation.  She knows he’s a murderous psychopath.  Steve’s possessive words would probably be terrifying to some, but she’s not any more afraid of him than she was of Gilmore Hodge.  She laughs cruelly.  “And what about what I want?  What if I  _ do  _ want a kid?” she demands bitterly.  “The doctors were so quick to assure me that I can have another one.  We made a mistake.  An accident.  But what if I want to do it for real?  What then, Steve?”

She expects him to rise to the bait, to take her challenge and meet it will equal anger and vitriol.  He simply looks at her, reminding her so much of the man she fell in love with that it nearly breaks her heart.  “Is that what you want?” he asks quietly.

She opens her mouth to respond and then closes it, looking at him.  She shakes her head, blinking back tears.  “Go away.”

“If that’s what you want, Peggy,” he says, “we can try again.”

She looks at him, absolutely shocked, aghast.  “Are you serious?”

He shrugs.  “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“I - “ she starts and then stops.  “You just said you didn’t want a kid _. _ ”

He shrugs again.  “It seems like you want one,” he says blandly.  “And if anyone’s going to knock you up, it’s me.”

She glowers at him.  “Go the fuck away, Steve.  I’m sick of looking at you.”

She walks over to the kitchen and gets a glass of water.  She drinks it and then heads back to the bed.  He’s still there, obviously with no intention of leaving.  She’s sick of fighting, but she’s definitely not in the mood.  She shrugs out of the robe and pulls on a worn sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants stained with paint from when she tried to repaint the bathroom.  The outfit is a mood killer if ever there was one, but she puts in her mouth guard just to be clear.

When she turns around, he’s in bed, waiting.  She turns off the light and crawls beneath the covers.  As soon as she’s settled, he scoots closer, holding her.

She sighs, closing her eyes.  “I hate you.”

“I know.”

  
END SECTION


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

**Steve**

 

Steve is just sitting there on a sofa in one of the Tower’s many conversation areas when the kid comes bounding up the steps and launches himself at him.  Steve catches the kid, who blinks up at him owlishly before giving him a bright smile.  He can’t be very old.  Two or three, maybe?  He’s wearing an Iron Man t-shirt and little sneakers that light up when he walks.  

Considering where they are, and the fact that the kid has dark hair and bright blue eyes, Steve wonders if maybe in this world Tony and Pepper had a kid.  Though Steve doesn’t see much of a family resemblance.  Regardless, the kid doesn’t seem to be scared of him, which is ... unexpected.  

Steve isn’t clear on all of the differences between this world and his own - he told Tony to stop messing with those damn stones.  But one thing this world’s Natasha did stress is that the Steve Rogers who belongs to this world is bad.  Very bad.  Murderer.  Terrorist.  General all around sadistic asshole.  It’s one of the many reasons that he and Sharon are confined to the Tower until they can find a way to send them home.

Steve has no idea why this kid seems content to sit in his lap.  He glances up as Sharon returns, bottle of water in hand.  She blinks at the two of them.  “Find a friend?”

Steve shrugs.  “I guess.”  He looks at the kid again.  “Maybe Parker’s even younger in this world.”

Sharon snorts and takes a seat on the chair diagonal to where Steve sits with the kid.  The kid shows Steve the dinosaur toy he has, explaining what it is and what it ate.  It’s clear he’s a sharp little guy.  Steve manages to get out of him that his name is Michael.  The dinosaur is named Rogers, which Steve suspects is a dig at his other self.

“There you are,” Natasha says brightly.

The kid screeches and laughs, trying to hide behind Steve.

Natasha’s features harden, but she keeps the smile.  “Come on, buddy,” she says.  “I know he looks like your dad, but that’s not him.  Come on.  You and I have a date with some squeezable yogurt.  Your mom’s still in a meeting.”

The kid reluctantly goes to Natasha, but as she leads him away, he keeps glancing over his shoulder at Steve.

“You look like the kid’s dad?” Sharon says, looking at him.

Steve shrugs.  “You know as much as I do.”

Sharon frowns.  “I thought the Steve Rogers in this world was a terrorist.”

He shrugs again.  “I guess that doesn’t preclude him from having kids.”

 

* * *

 

 

What with trying to get home, Steve has more than enough to worry about without thinking about that kid.  But he can’t help it, his attention keeps going back to the little guy.  The kid liked him, which means that the kid must like his father.  So terrorist or not, the Steve Rogers in this world must take some role in his son’s life.

A son.  Steve Rogers’ son.

Steve still has doesn’t know for certain who Michael’s mother is. 

But Steve saw the bottom of the dinosaur.  He saw ‘Carter’ printed in black marker.  Steve knows that it’s a common name, but it’s too big of a coincidence.  Steve knows it’s most likely that Michael’s mother is Sharon.  

Steve wonders if she suspects the same thing.  They’ve studiously avoided discussing the kid since Natasha carted him off.

Ever since the kiss, things between him and Sharon have been weird.  In that moment, it seemed right to pull her close.  She seemed to want him as much as he wanted her.  Sharon seemed so familiar, like home in a way.  

But with the chaos of his life, he hadn’t seen Sharon for months.  And the distance was easier than he expected on him.  Though it clearly hasn't done anything to endear him to her.  Not that he blames her for being pissed at him.  Intergalactic crises somehow sorted out most of Steve’s logistical challenges.  He isn’t a fugitive anymore.  The team is back together.  He has a life.  Sort of.  

When he finally saw Sharon again a month ago, all he knew was that the reaction he felt looking at her wasn’t exactly the one he’d been hoping for.  The longer Steve has had to think about it, he wonders if his reaction to her wasn’t all jumbled up with Peggy’s funeral and all the stuff with Bucky.  Steve desperately needed touchpoints, connection, especially when everything was slipping away.  Sharon was a friend, an ally.  And a beautiful woman, strong and courageous.  He was drawn to her.  He acted without thinking, and did her a bigger disservice than he did himself.

But maybe this is a sign.  Maybe he and Sharon are supposed to have a future together.  Maybe being pulled into this dimension is just a chance to see what they’re missing.

It still doesn’t explain why Sharon Carter would have had a child with a known terrorist.  He hopes like hell it wasn’t a bad situation, that Steve Rogers didn’t attack Sharon’s double in this world.

 

* * *

 

 

Banner tucks the tablet against his chest and frowns at them.  “Yeah,” he says grimly.  “Okay.  Follow me.”

Steve and Sharon follow Banner to one of the labs.  It looks slightly different than Banner’s lab in their world.  But it’s similar enough, hopefully, that Banner and Stark can figure out how to send them home.

In Banner’s lab, Steve and Sharon sit on stools.  Banner takes readings.  Readings of what, Steve does not know.  Nor does he care.  Not really.  Banner taps away at the smart screen, muttering under his breath.  He finally jogs out of the room, still muttering.  He’s back in a few minutes.  More muttering, more tests.  

Sharon gets up and starts to pace.  Steve keeps his seat, but he starts tapping with his foot.  At least until Sharon shoots him a look and he stops.

They’re still there, an hour later, when a sharp wail splits the air.

Steve’s in the hallway in a moment, running toward the sound.  He rounds the corner and Michael is there, face red, tears streaming down his round cheeks.  The second he sees Steve, he holds up his arms.  As soon as Steve picks him up, he buries his damp face against Steve’s chest, still sobbing.

Hill rounds the corner and frowns when she sees Steve holding the little boy.  Slowly, she steps closer, like Michael is an incendiary device best approached with caution.  She reaches out, somewhat awkwardly, and rubs Michael’s back.  “Mikey,” she says, “why don’t you come with me.”

Michael doesn’t bother looking at her, but he wails louder, pressing closer to Steve.

Over Michael’s head, Steve and Hill lock eyes.  Steve frowns and then he leans down, his mouth close to Michael’s ear.  He speaks softly.  “What’s the matter, pal?”

Michael wails, but pushes back, looking at Steve, holding out his finger.  He has a cut.  It doesn’t look deep.

“Quite the flesh wound you got there,” Steve says solemnly.  “Maybe we can find some bandages.”

Michael nods, clutching his wounded finger to his chest.

Steve looks over his shoulder at Sharon.  She followed him out of Banner’s lab, but she stands a good distance away, watching him with an expression he can’t read.  She turns away, heading back to the lab.  Steve looks to Hill who inclines her head in the opposite direction.

Steve follows Hill down the hall to the elevator and then up two flights to the small infirmary.  Michael has stopped crying and he perks up.  Steve suspects Hill probably could have found some bandaids without visiting the infirmary, but it seems like Michael enjoys this.

When they enter the infirmary, the nurse looks up at them.  Her features twist in exaggerated concern.  “Michael, did you damage yourself again, sweetie?”

Michael holds out his finger, but still clutches to Steve with his good hand.  It’s clear he wants her to see his wound, but equally clear he has no intention of letting go of Steve.  The nurse frowns at Steve, but directs him to take a seat on the exam table, Michael in his lap.

Hill’s phone rings and she steps out into the hallway.

The nurse makes a show of examining Michael’s wound.  She then consults him on the best color of bandage to adequately address the issue.  Blue, it appears, is the correct color.  Michael turns and beams up at Steve, who smiles back.  The nurse releases Michael, giving him a sticker to speed his recovery.

Steve rises to stand, and his world seems to stop on a dime.  Standing in the doorway of the infirmary is Peggy Carter.

Steve can’t move, can’t speak.  Peggy.   _How?_ The nurse quietly disappears.

Peggy looks phenomenal, dressed in a form fitting navy blue dress with an asymmetrical collar and fuchsia heels.  Her hair is dark and straight, falling past her shoulders.  Her makeup is simple, accentuating her features without looking over the top.  And she is _young_.

“Mama!” Michael chirps, holding out his bandaged finger.

Peggy walks toward them, tutting.  “Oh, darling,” she says, reaching out and gathering Michael into her arms.  “Did you hurt yourself?”

He nods and then seems to change gears, looking over his shoulder, pointing at Steve.

She smiles at both Michael and Steve.  “Indeed,” she says conspiratorially to Michael.  “I see you found a friend.  Bruce says he’s visiting from _another dimension._ ”  She gives Steve a wry smile and then looks down at Michael.  “Let’s not tell your father, darling.  You know how he is.”

Michael doesn’t respond to her request and Steve knows the words were for his benefit, rather than Michael’s.  Steve wishes he had some witty rejoinder, but he can do little more than stare.  The way she holds herself, it reminds him so much of everything he lost in the ice.  She looks beautiful, feminine, but _strong_.  She is not a woman to be trifled with.

Steve finally manages to say, “His father?”

“Yes,” she says, giving him another tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.  “Steve Rogers.”

Steve opens his mouth and then closes it.  He rubs the back of his neck with his hand.  “I thought he was a terrorist.”

She arches an eyebrow, expression self-deprecating.  “Among other things.  None of them particularly redeeming.”

Steve frowns.  “I don’t - “

Peggy’s poise seems to falter and her lips purse together.  “Natasha told me you were different.  More like ... him.”

“Him?” Steve asks.

Peggy looks at him and then away.   She shifts Michael in her arms, looking back at Steve. “The Steve Rogers I fell in love with died when he received Erskine’s serum.  The man who stepped out Howard’s pod and took his place is a monster,” she says flatly.  “He colluded with Schmidt during the war, unbeknownst to the SSR.  And in this time, he found any number of horrible ways to wreak havoc.”

Steve frowns, looking at Michael.  “Found ways?  Past tense?”

She shrugs, her eyes glassy.  “He behaves himself more these days,” she says.  “He’s not willing to risk losing access to his son.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but he suspects maybe there’s more to it than just losing access to Michael that’s keeping his evil alter ego in check.  “So you two ... ?”

Another tight smile.  “Indeed,” she says, the bitterness in her voice obvious.  “It’s a delicate balancing act,” she continues, “being with him and still being who I am.  I was two months pregnant at Phil Coulson’s funeral.  That was horrible.”

Steve clears his throat, at a loss.  “So he ... killed Phil?”

She nods.  “Phil was one of many.”  She purses her lips together and gives him a sad smile.  “It was nice to meet you, Steve.  I wish you a safe journey home.”

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

**Peggy**

 

Aside from meeting interdimensional travelers, the rest of Peggy’s day is typical.  She and Michael take a cab back to the apartment, far nicer accommodations than the studio disaster she first had after waking in this time.  Upper east side, fantastic view.  She doesn’t know where Steve got the money to buy it.  She doesn’t want to know.

At home, she changes into leggings and an old t-shirt and cooks dinner, glass of wine in hand.  As hard as she tries to avoid it, her mind keeps going back to the man she met today.  Michael keeps mentioning ‘daddy’.  She knows he doesn’t understand that wasn’t their Steve.  Michael can’t tell the difference.  

Peggy wishes like hell she couldn’t either, but it’s night and day.  A Steve Rogers who is both a seasoned soldier and a good man.  Shaking her head, she takes another drink.  He was with Sharon.  She doesn’t know what to make of that.  She doesn’t have any idea where his Peggy is, or if they are even in each other’s lives - but the look on his face when he saw her.  

Peggy has never been close to her niece, or any of her relatives in this time.  Like so many things in her life, that fact has been driven by her relationship with Steve.  And the inevitable shame it brings being his lover.

How much has she compromised for him?  How much has she ignored?  He’s a monster, she’s never denied that, not to herself and not to anyone else.  He does monstrous things.  The world would be a better place without him.  But she can’t bring herself to end him, and no one else can manage the job either.  Not that they haven’t tried.  After enough failures Fury, Ross and Stark finally admitted that much.  It’s not a truce so much as a losing proposition on both sides.  

Steve would have kept up his end of the battle, she knows, if it hadn’t been for what happened after Coulson’s funeral.  She scared him.  Scared herself.  And now he behaves.  Mostly.  She understands that being with her blunts his viciousness somewhat.  But some days she still can’t stand to look at herself in the mirror.

The Steve Rogers she met today, at his core, is still the man she fell in love with.  And he looked so ... lost, so heartbroken, when they met.  She wonders what he saw when he looked at her.  He had obviously been told about his doppelganger in this world.  It was clear he didn’t understand how she was with the worst possible version of him.

She’s not sure she understands either.

She takes a deep breath and calls for Michael, who is sitting on the floor in the living room playing with some puzzle Tony gave him.  He comes running and she puts him in his booster seat at the small table.  Michael, like his father, is a bottomless pit.  He even eats the vegetables without complaining.

She pours herself a second glass of wine and gives Michael a bath and wrangles him into pajamas.  She sits on the couch, leafing through a magazine while Michael plays with the puzzle again.  “Ten minutes,” she tells him, “and then it’s time for a book and bed.”

Michael gives her no indication that he heard anything she said.  Sighing, she flips the page.

She jumps as he presses a kiss to the side of her neck.  “Fucking hell, Steve,” she curses, making sure she didn’t inadvertently spill the wine.  She twists around, looking at him.  She’s not sure why he snuck in the apartment, like he expected to catch her at something.

He pulls back and looks at her with a calculating gaze.

Michael screeches and bounds toward him.  Turning, Steve scoops his son into his arms with none of the awkwardness his doppelganger displayed earlier.  Peggy sits there in the corner of the couch, watching.  Steve gets down on the floor with Michael and has him show him how the puzzle works.  Ten minutes later, he picks Michael up and takes him to his room.  Peggy can hear him reading a book.

Slowly, she makes her way back to Michael’s room and leans against the doorjamb, watching.  Steve finishes the book and tucks Michael in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.  He turns on the nightlight and steps aside so Peggy can give Michael a kiss as well.

Steve turns off the light and they both leave the room.  Peggy heads to the kitchen.  She leans against the kitchen counter and tips the wine bottle up, pouring what’s left into her glass.  Steve comes to stand behind her, his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, his breath warm against the nape of her neck.  She takes a drink of wine.  “Yes?”

He nips at her neck as one of his hands roams up her side.  She shivers, pushing back into him.  He wraps his arms around her, sucking at her neck.  She turns in his arms, threading her fingers through his hair and kissing him deeply.  His hands find her hips and he lifts her onto the counter, standing between her legs.  

He pulls back and looks at her.  “Make any new friends today, Peg?”

She doesn’t know who his mole is inside Stark’s organization, but he obviously has one.  She blinks and then leans back, bracing her hands behind her, looking at him.  “What do you think you know?”

His gaze coasts over her body and his fingers circle her ankles.  He runs his hands up her legs, over her calves, then to her thighs.  Her pulse quickens.  He leans in closer, wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her to him.  He doesn’t kiss her.  His finger traces along the edge of her jaw as he watches her.  “Did he want you?”

She rolls her eyes and pushes him away, hopping off the counter.  She grabs her glass of wine and walks through the apartment to the master bedroom.  He follows at a leisurely pace.  She ignores him, setting the wine on her vanity and trading out the leggings and t-shirt for a worn, cotton jersey nightgown.  If he’s expecting a show, he’s not going to get one.

She finishes the wine and then heads for the bathroom.  She doesn’t look at herself in the mirror as she washes her face and applies her skincare routine.  It’s complicated, and expensive.  Looking good has never been easy, or cheap.  She can see his reflection out of the corner of her eyes.  He’s laying on the bed, watching her, still dressed save for his shoes.  She ignores him, brushing her hair and pulling it back into a messy bun.

“You let Michael meet him.”

“Michael thought he was you,” she says flatly.  “I didn’t correct him.”  She brushes her teeth.

As she’s patting her mouth dry, he says, “His Peggy’s dead, did he tell you that?”

She looks at him then and she absolutely hates the cruel twist of his lips.  “No,” she says honestly.  “I didn’t ask.”  She turns off the bathroom light and crosses the room.  She turns on the lamp on her bedside table and then turns off the overhead light.

He sits up, leans forward, watching her.  “He’s with Sharon.”  He laughs.  “As much as a virgin can be _with_ anybody.”

She grabs her iPad and mounds up the pillows, his as well as hers, ignoring him.  She pulls back the covers and settles in, finding the spot in her book.  She thinks he’s full of shit with the comment about Sharon.  But she believes the other Peggy is dead.  It would explain the look on the other Steve’s face.

She forces herself to read, though she doesn’t absorb much of the story.  She knows he’s sitting there, watching her.  After several minutes, he pushes himself off the bed and starts shedding clothes as he heads for the shower.  Apparently he’s planning on spending the night.  She never knows.  She’s stopped having expectations.  

Several minutes later, he exits the bathroom nude, towel around his shoulders, drying his hair.  He drops the damp towel on the floor and she looks at him.  He meets her gaze, virtually daring her to complain.  He wants a fight.

She turns off the iPad and rolls over, turning out her light and pulling the covers up to her shoulders.  Wordlessly, he slides between the covers.  He pauses a moment in the darkened space, and then reaches for her, pulling her against him.  She lets him roll her over onto her back and he looks down at her in the dim light.

She knows he’s looking at her, but she can’t see nearly as well in the dark as he can.  She stares at the ceiling, expression neutral.  He leans down, nuzzling into the space under her ear, breathing deeply.  “You didn’t fuck him,” he says, scraping his teeth against her neck.

Her temper has always been quick, and the wine doesn’t help.  How dare he think she would have sex with a stranger?  She twists, smacking him as hard as she can in the shoulder, shoving at him, trying to scratch him.

It’s exactly what he wants.  He grabs her hand and pins her to the bed, one of his legs between hers, effectively immobilizing her.  She can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “There you are, my love.”

“Fuck you,” she snarls, trying to throw him off.  But she already knows that the few times she’s manhandled him, it’s been because he was humoring her.  He doesn’t appear to be in the mood to humor her right now.

He leans down and presses kisses along her shoulder, then to her chest.  He seals his lips around one of her nipples, through her nightgown.  She tries to bite him but she can’t get a good angle.  She finally lays back in a huff, glaring at the ceiling, forcing herself not to fight him.

He stops and she can tell he’s looking at her.  “Playing the martyr now?”

She doesn’t say anything.  She knows her silence rankles him more than any other possible response.

He sighs and moves off her.  The second she’s free, she rolls away again, giving him her back.

She feels him flop over onto his back and she’s certain he’s glaring at her.  “He’s everything you ever wanted,” he says, his voice hard.  “ _Your_ Steve.”  His voice is taunting, cruel.  “Erskine’s _good man_.”  He laughs.  “But with a body like mine.  Don’t try and pretend you don’t like that.”

“You don’t know a fucking thing,” she snaps.  “And you don’t know _me_ half as well as you think you do.”

He’s quiet and she knows she hit a nerve.  He moves toward her slowly, pressing himself against her back.  She forces herself not to respond.

“And what about him?” he asks, his voice deadly calm, his breath hot against her ear.  “Does he know you?”

“Jesus,” she curses.  She laughs bitterly.  “No,” she says flatly.  “He doesn’t.  He knows even less about me than you, which is saying something.”  She reaches over and flips on the lamp, turning to look at him.  He’s just staring at her in confusion.  It is clearly not the response he was expecting.

She pushes herself up onto her hands and knees and moves over him, pushing him back into the pillows.  He lets her, watching her the whole time with narrowed eyes.

“He’s not _my_ Steve, asshole,” she says.  “ _You_ are.”

He blinks up at her, jaw hard.  She waits.

“That’s not what you said,” he finally says quietly, expression still angry and confused.

She rolls her eyes and pushes herself back, sitting up on him, her pelvis against his.  “Jesus Christ, Steve,” she curses.  “That was _years_ ago.”

“Nothing’s changed,” he says.

She shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest.  “Everything has changed,” she says flatly.  

“Like what?”

“Me,” she snaps.  “I’ve changed.”  She smacks him in the chest.  “You’ve changed.”  She shakes her head again and pushes herself up and out of the bed.  She grabs her empty wine glass and takes it into the bathroom, filling it with water and drinking it.  

She walks back into the bedroom and he’s still sitting there, watching her, sullen expression on his face.  “Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, exasperated, “we have _Michael_.”

She understands that he doesn’t understand.  Because nothing has changed for him.  Not since that first day at Camp Lehigh.  Sure, _he_ changed, physically, emotionally, mentally.  But nothing about his feelings toward her have changed.  His devotion is more than a little terrifying.

She sighs, feeling her shoulders slump forward.  She frowns at him.  He looks like a wet cat in the middle of their bed.  He really doesn’t understand.

Slowly, she approaches the bed.  “I love you,” she says quietly, her voice full of resignation and shame - and resolve.  “I wouldn’t have had a child with you if I didn’t.”

“It was an accident - “

“The _first time_  was an accident,” she says sharply.  “Michael was on purpose.  And I didn’t do it because I wanted a baby.  I did it because I wanted a family  _with you_ .  Not some perfect Steve Rogers.   _You_ , you fucking sociopath.”

His expressions flit between pleasure and irritation.  He finally frowns.  “You never said,” he says quietly.

She knows what he means, but she prompts him.  “Said what?”

He glowers at her, chin jutting out.  He’s not going to say it.  She climbs onto the bed on her hands and knees.  He watches her with narrowed eyes, but doesn’t say anything.  

She nips along his jaw, feeling his stubble scrape against her teeth.  “I hate you,” she says evenly.  She pulls back to look at him.  His expression is still hard.  She sighs and leans in again, this time kissing his neck.  “But I love you too.”

He makes a pleased sound and wraps his arms around her, pulling her close.  He kisses her, long and deep.  “I love you too, Peggy.”

 

END SECTION


End file.
